Fire and Ice
by kerianne
Summary: A little fic about my favorite non-yaoi WK pairing. And yes, it is pretty out there (the pairing), but I think it's adorable anyway. It's basically a PWP, but it's pretty deep and emotional, and not too explicit. (non-yaoi, lime)


Fire and Ice  
By: Kerianne (mpike@froggernet.com)  


Pairings: I'll let you figure that out on your own  
Rating: Somewhere between PG-13 and R  
Content: Non-yaoi lime

Spoilers: You'd better know about Aya-chan and Schwarz's existance, but it's kind of AU so there aren't any spoilers for the end or anything

::.....:: -- Projected thoughts

She opened her eyes.

White. Unbearably bright white, coming in on all sides, overloading her senses.

And then, slowly, something began to come into focus.

Red hair.

But.... the wrong color....

_Niisan..._ she thought. She tried to speak, but her voice would not comply.

"No," the flaming vision said, simply. It shifted, moving closer, and then abruptly came into focus.

A man's face. Not her niisan, not Ran. No violet eyes smiling down at her, just blue eyes that burned and froze at the same time. Everything about this man blazed.... he was ice encased in fire, he shone, he sparked, he flared...

Beautiful.

She closed her eyes, either to awaken from the dream or return to it. Then she opened them again.

He was still there, although he could not be, for he was too wild, too lovely to be held in by these four walls, here with her.

"You flatter me." He smirked, leaning over her. So close, she expected to burst into flame at any moment, simply from his nearness.

And she found her voice.

"Who are you?" She did not ask about her brother, or where they were, or how they'd gotten there. That all seemed far away now.

"Not important. But if you really must know.... I am you. I am your thoughts."

"So you're not real?" she murmured, almost disappointed.

"Oh, no. I'm real." He smiled-- _breathtaking_-- and then, in one fluid movement, sat down on the bed, leaned over, and kissed her.

She didn't fight it. It felt right, even in this strange and disorienting atmosphere. She let his warm mouth expertly explore hers, losing herself, shedding the last of the isolated feeling she'd woken up with.

She began to sit up, but he pushed her back down. He wasn't rough, but he did not release the pressure, pinning her shoulders down with one hand as he plundered her mouth and her mind, taking everything he could.

And she lay still. Even when he moved to smother her completely, even when he pulled at the straps of the unfamiliar nightgown she was wearing, she lay still, without fighting. She knew what was coming, and she almost welcomed it, the strange pressure, the slight pain, the unfamiliar sensations that washed over her.

Her arms surrounded him, her trembling fingertips moving over skin that was impossibly cool for someone made of flame. Nevertheless, he burned, and she burned for him, and they were going down together like the fire that engulfed Joan of Arc, blending into each other, ceasing to exist as singular, separate entities.

He was not rough, never too anxious or hurried, treating her almost delicately. But not out of love, or any particular affection or emotion towards her, she knew that. He was disconnected, distant, as if this were just another task to be completed. She wondered if he knew how to feel any other way. Did anything mean anything to this spirit, this demon of fire and ice? Thinking about it made her ache inside with sadness.

::You pity me? How endearing.:: The voice in her mind was bitter, and his frozen eyes flashed down at her. For a moment she imagined she saw tiny facets within them, like an iceberg.

But one can't hold an iceberg, and so, to prove to herself that he was real, she pulled him closer, urging him on, clinging to the only warmth she'd felt in a thousand eternities. His touch was amazing, despite his seemingly total lack of emotional attachment. She was in heaven, she was flying...

She was being raped, wasn't she?

No, on second thought, perhaps not. Maybe he was just giving her what she needed. He hadn't pressured her into anything, or used any force on her at all... had he?

::You think too much, liebe.:: He smirked down at her. ::Yes, this is what you need.... what I need...:: 

She wondered if he'd meant to project the last part.

So, he needed her? No, he needed_ this_, the act, the routine of going through the motions.

But why?

Suddenly she felt it, emanating from him, in his smile and his thoughts and his movements. She was pure, and he was not, and this was what he craved. Not the corruption, not really, but rather just being close to what he once had, what he could never have again.....

It was gone forever, his innocence, his purity, and she felt that he had no hope, and suddenly it hurt to look at him. It hurt to think of him, to know that she could not get through to him. She wasn't strong enough to fight through the flames and melt the ice, but she wanted to... God, how she wanted to, to hold him for real, to show him how lovely he was, to give him perfection, everything, love, beauty.... _he burns my eyes...._

His long fingers were working at her braids, undoing them, and he buried his hands in the cascade of blue-black wavy hair that tumbled out of them. It was almost symbolic, the last of her childhood naivete coming apart with the braids. She let it go without sadness or pity, because all of her sadness and pity was focused on him.... her attacker, her beautiful stranger, the man who was breaking her heart even now, even this close, this far away.....

She was screaming inside her head, calling to him, needing some sort of reaction. But he remained calm, cold, even as she felt his whole body stiffen in her arms, muscles tensing; then he closed his eyes and released into her, a slight smile of triumph touching his face. He had what he wanted. And even as she reached her own climax, she felt empty. She meant nothing to him.

Her thoughts were confirmed when he sat up, coolly, as soon as he'd caught his breath, and pulled his clothes back on. She watched him, his every movement fascinating to her, and wondered how someone so dead could look and feel so alive.

He didn't say a word to her. His only acknowledgment that she existed was to toss her nightgown back up onto the bed. Then he crossed the room to the door.

"Wait!" 

He turned around, his cold blue eyes burning into hers, and there were a million things she could have said, but she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"You never told me your name."

He smiled emptily, his eyes wavering, and she realized that he looked almost like he was about to burst into tears. "I'm guilty."

And with that, he was gone. His exit left a gaping hole in the room, and in her heart. She wanted to run after him, to call him back and pull him into her arms and never let go, to save him. She wanted to give him everything he had been denied, to show him what real love was. She wanted to be there when he finally broke, when the flame was extinguished and the ice shattered and there was nothing left but the broken, lonely man hiding inside. And she would put him back together, help him let go of whatever horrible burden he carried, and they'd be happy together in a little white house with a picket fence and a cat and 2.5 children....

She couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry at this scene.

So she did both.

And then she slept, and dreamed of fire and ice in her arms.

the end


End file.
